


Trap

by wolfferine



Series: The Grand Adventures of Tracer and Widowmaker [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Why?, Widowmaker's tattoos are weird, but her tattoos are so tacky, she's so put together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 20:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7985668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfferine/pseuds/wolfferine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tracer has a question for Widowmaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trap

“Ok girl. I just need to know this.”   
  
It’s a mission like any other. Which means Tracer is now zipping in concentric circles around Widowmaker’s body as the spider tries to take a shot at her.  
  
“Look. _Listen_. I need to know,” Tracer enunciates as she flashes by Widowmaker’s face for the hundredth time. “I need to know, where ya get those _crazy tattoos_ from, girl?”  
  
Widowmaker lets off another shot. It misses, the bullet drilling into dense concrete right where Tracer had been seconds ago.  
  
“Like I just—I can’t picture it!” Tracer says as she abruptly halts her dastard blitzing and plops down onto the ground, legs and arms crossed in a picture of contemplation. “I can’t, Widowmaker. I can’t picture how the tattoo deal went down.”  
  
Widowmaker inhales, forcing herself to remain calm and her breathing to remain steady.  
  
_Persistence guarantees that results are inevitable—_ she lectures herself as she lifts her rifle back up to her eyes, once again training her scope at the devil’s spawn.  
  
“Like, really, did Talon actually sanction it? Was it an _official_ directive for you to get those tattoos? It must be right?”  
  
Widowmaker squeezes her trigger, viciously.  
  
But Tracer is already gone in a blink, lithe body zipping over to the other end of the roof where the two of them are at.  
  
“Because if it wasn’t… well. I _shudder_ to think of the alternative you know?” Tracer is saying. “The alternative being, you actually _wanted_ those tacky tattoos for yourself.”  
  
Widowmaker grinds down on her teeth, hard.  
  
There’s a moment where she feels something red hot and blinding streaks across her chest, and another where she feels the veins in her forehead starting to pulsate.  
  
Re-training her gun, she shoots again; it misses, Tracer laughs—and that’s when Widowmaker throws her gun down into the ground.  
  
“Fuck this.” She snaps.  
  
“Whatsat love?”  
  
“Fuck. _This_.”  
  
Widowmaker’s voice sounds a little strangled, a little strange, so Tracer looks over at her.  
  
She sees the assassin blinking rapidly, her nose slightly reddened, and her teeth gnawing compulsively at her lips.  
  
“Aw shit.” Tracer recognizes the signs. “Shit. Wait are you…”  
  
Widowmaker quickly turns away, arms wrapping tight around herself as if trying to conjure warmth.  
  
“Wait. Wait, love, I don’t—“  
  
Is that sniffling Tracer hears? Is Widowmaker _sniffling_?!  
  
A rush of guilt bolts through Tracer’s heart.

There’s something downright abominable about making girls cry. Even if the girl in question is a deadly, coldblooded, husband-murdering assassin.  
  
“What is wrong with ze tattoos?” Widowmaker is whispering, her voice thin as a breeze.  
  
“Nothing!” Tracer hastily tries to backpedal. “Nothing at all!”  
  
“You just said they were tacky,” Widowmaker’s voice _breaks_.  
  
“Did I? Look, I was just trying to get a rise out of you, love! You know how it is!”  
  
“It wasn’t a nice thing to say. You don’t know what tattoos can mean to people.”  
  
“No—Yes, you are right. It wasn’t very nice, I admit. And I’m very, very sorry. Look, love, your tattoos are very beautiful. Truly they are! Very beautiful. I only said what I said out of… out of _envy_.” Tracer chokes out the words.  
  
“Really?” Widowmaker spins around to face her, eyes watery. “Do you really mean that.”  
  
“I—yes, of course love.” Tracer puts on a tight smile.  
  
“I do not believe you,” Widowmaker declares. “If you really think my tattoos are _that_  very beautiful, then you would have wanted to come and touch.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You would have wanted to come touch ze tattoos because of how beautiful they are. If you do not even want to _feel_ the tattoos, then I cannot believe your words are not lies.”  
  
Tracer stands there rooted, staring blankly at Widowmaker.  
  
A second passes, a minute, a leaf drops down from a distant tree.  
  
Widowmaker’s brows begin to quiver and her lips start to wobble.  
  
“Ok, ok!” Tracer yelps, throwing up her hands. “I’m _dyin'_ to touch your tattoos. Just. Just _don’t_.”  
  
Gingerly, she walks up to Widowmaker, one foot dragging behind the other as the assassin offers out her blue colored forearm—the one with the words _Cauchemar_ and _Araignée du Soir_ splashed across it in a tasteless black font and criss-crossed with tawdry, abstract lines that do nothing to add to the _aesthetic_.  
  
_Ok…_  
  
Hesitantly, Tracer flips out her index, lightly pressing the tip of it into the _C_ of _Cauchemar._  
  
Widowmaker’s skin is so very cold. Almost inhumanly so.  
  
“Ah yes,” Tracer swallows. “Yes. I see it now, it is very beautiful indeed.”  
  
She’s about to retract her finger but the whip-crack of Widowmaker’s voice stops her.  
  
“Stroke it.” The assassin commands, stony amber eyes boring into Tracer’s. “ _Stroke._ The tattoo.”

Inwardly wincing, Tracer slowly, torturously, drags her finger across the tattoo.  
  
Somewhere in the distance, a loud explosion goes off. Somewhere in the distance, she hears Pharah screaming as the soldier falls through the air.  
  
“Is this enough?” Tracer looks up at Widowmaker, eyes hopeful.  
  
“ _Non.”_  
  
Tracer drags her finger through another inch of the tattoo, “is this enough?”  
  
“ _Non.”_  
  
Tracer drags her finger halfway through the _Cauchemar,_ “is this enough?”  
  
“ _Non.”_  
  
Swallowing hard, Tracer lets her finger drag across the outline of every alphabet that makes up the words in Widowmaker’s tattoo. Then, for good measure, she drags through the entire thing again, this time in reverse. “Is this enough now?” She squeaks.  
  
Widowmaker looks somewhat satisfied.  
  
“ _Oui_ ,” she nods. “Now, you can stroke the spider.”  
  
_The spi—?_  
  
Turning around, Widowmaker gestures to her exposed back, at the L-sized tattoo of a blackwidow spider plastered between her shoulder blades like some Halloween cosmetic gone wrong.  
  
_Oh god. It’s even nastier up close,_ Tracer thinks to herself.  
  
“Touch it.”  
  
And Tracer lifts her hand, face scrunched up in anguish as she lightly prods the tattoo with the edge of one knuckle. Widowmaker’s flesh bounces firm against her touch.  
  
“ _Oui,_ ” the assassin lets out a gasp.  
  
“ _C’est bon_ ,” she sighs in succession.

Tracer pokes the tattoo again.  
  
“ _Encore_ ,” Widowmaker is whispering now, low and husky.  
  
A part of Tracer is starting to wonder if all these is doing something strange to Widowmaker.  
  
She pokes the tattoo a few more times.  
  
“ _Yes_. Yes, it's very good.” Widowmaker exhales, breathless. “Stroke it now, like you did with the words.”  
  
Starting from the left uppermost leg of the spider tattoo, Tracer begins trailing her fingertips down and across the expanse of the spider’s body, taking care to map out every line and color in every patch.  
  
The British girl is so engrossed in her task of tattoo-tracing, she did not quite notice the sly smile flitting across Widowmaker’s lips. Did not quite notice the assassin sneakily reaching down to slide a long, serrated blade out from the thin strap above her bionic legs.  
  
Did not quite notice as she—  
  
_Adieu_ _ché _rie.__


End file.
